


How Horrorterrors are Made

by QuantumFeat72



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon Compliant, Depressing, Drabble, Gen, God Tier, One Shot, Original Character(s), Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:10:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuantumFeat72/pseuds/QuantumFeat72
Summary: Most SBURB sessions fail.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this 2 years ago and only just found it.
> 
> Based on this tumblr post (idk how to do links in notes): http://oripoke.tumblr.com/post/32603290268/binart-did-you-know-that-most-sburb-sessions
> 
> The word count on my computer says this is 1500 words exactly but the one on ao3 says its 1498 words and idk what to believe.

You’re on Prospit, watching the clouds of skaia darken.  There aren’t any partial truths and glimpses of the future there anymore.  Just storm clouds as far as you can see.

The ground is littered with the bodies of the Prospitians.  The golden city in the sky had fallen faster than even the most hateful Dersites would have dared hope.  Their blood runs in the streets and the storm clouds offer no rain to wash it away.

Your god tier robes are soaking up the blood.  A week ago, you would have said you have no time for metaphors and poetry.  But there’s no purpose you need to work towards anymore.  You have time.  You have nothing BUT time.

So you decide it _is_ poetic.  Your garb of immortality, soaked in the blood of those you couldn’t save.  A bitter chuckle escapes your lips, and you turn, hoping it came from someone else.

There’s no one there.

There’s no time player to return to the alpha timeline.  This might BE the alpha timeline.

You suppose it doesn’t matter.  Time is dead.  Space is dead.  There’s no light and no dark and no war and there’s no genesis tadpole to grow into a frog and there’s no army standing in it’s way.

Just you.

And the last white cloud in the sky glimmers in skaia’s light, framing a picture of you and your friends together.  Alive.

 

* * *

 

You put your friends’ bodies on their respective quest beds.  You travel the expanse of each planet in turn, finding the caves of their denizens.  There are no denizens there.

You visit the battlefield and stare at the bodies, dark and light, each on one side or the other but equal in death.  You decide to dig graves for them.

You dig and dig and dig, and the battlefield is covered with the graves of the fallen.  You traverse the planets again, and dig graves for the consorts of your friends.  You dig on Derse and on Prospit and commit every soul to the ground.

Every planet except yours.  You should dig graves for your consorts, too, but some part of you holds you back, stops you from returning to your house and your planet and your quest bed.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, eternity wins out and you return.  You dig more and more holes for the rotted corpses of your consorts.  You dig and you dig and you dig and soon you find yourself at the top of your little mountain, facing your quest bed.

The hammerkind strife specibus belonged to one of your friends.  The sledgehammer belonged to your family.

You didn’t realize you were carrying them until the hammer is meeting the stone surface of the bed.  The profanities fly from your mouth before you know what you’re saying.  You curse the game and your class and your aspect and your friends and yourself, most of all yourself.  And when all that’s left of your quest bed is a pile of broken stones in the color of your aspect, you pause.

Your lungs burn.  Your arm aches.  The hammer falls at your side with a soft thunk.  Your voice quiets to a whisper, then a sob.  You’re on your knees and the pressure is building behind your eyes and your sobs are growing louder and you’re crying, crying for the first time since your friends died, crying for them and for you and for everything you all couldn’t do, and cursing louder still, that your friends went and died right when you needed them most.

There’s nothing left to interrupt your sobs, no comforting hand to pat your back and tell you it’s okay, not even a loud explosion to shake you into a sense of urgency.  You cry until you fall asleep, and even then continue some.

 

* * *

 

The day comes, eventually, and if days can be said to have any meaning anymore, that you realize nothing is left for you in the medium.  The only light comes from dream bubbles.  The only sound is the whispers of the horrorterrors.  With one last round trip, you say your goodbyes and venture into the furthest ring.

 

* * *

 

It’s... big.  Bigger than you expected.  You’ve been wandering for years now.  You know your friends are here, somewhere.  You just have to find them.  You hope eternity is long enough.

 

* * *

 

You’ve been in this same dream bubble for so goddamn long.  Too long.  You haven’t met another soul since you arrived in the furthest ring.  You had hoped that, maybe, you wouldn’t be alone here.  You didn’t realize how absurd that was.  You just wish it would end, already.

 

* * *

 

 

You don’t know how long it’s been.  You think, if you did, it would be measured in decades, but when you traverse yet another desert you slowly realize that it doesn’t really matter.  You’re here and you’re stuck here and it doesn’t matter how many times you’ve watched the sun rise or set and it doesn’t matter how many hours have passed and how many miles you’ve traversed and...

And it doesn’t matter how many times you kill yourself, because there’s nothing heroic or just about suicide.

 

* * *

 

It’s been more centuries than you can count, and you’ve killed yourself more times than could be counted by anyone.

You still haven’t met another player, or even an animal.  You’d settle for one of your bullshit consorts at this point.

 

* * *

 

You start listening to the horrorterrors.

They’ve been talking for as long as you can remember, but for some reason it took you...

...however long it’s been...

...to actually listen, to understand what they’re saying, even to go so far as ... agreeing with it.

 

* * *

 

Maybe eternity isn’t so long after all.

You can’t meet your dead friends, you know, because you’re too alive for that.

You’ve known that for a long time, actually.  You’ll never see them again and you’ve resigned yourself to that.

But.  It doesn’t, it _shouldn’t_ mean that your life ends, too.

Right?

 

* * *

 

You’re clothes stop repairing themselves when you’re revived.

 

* * *

 

After your next attempt, your wound stays behind, in the form of a fleshy scar.  You guess paradox space decided to stop bothering itself with your health.

 

* * *

 

You think maybe that means it’ll work, eventually.

 

* * *

 

You’re not sure you remember how to talk.

You sit in a dream bubble and think and try to form the words, but when you know what to say your mouth won’t move, and when it finally moves to your command you’ve forgotten what you wanted to say.

You finally decide on something you can’t forget - the names of your friends.  You form the words over and over in your mind and when they come out you don’t recognize them.  The sounds are alien to you and your mouth seems to move without your permission.

You repeat them anyway, over and over until they sound real, sound like actual words that represent your friends.

Your friends whose faces you still remember, etched into your mind with more permanence than even your own name.

Your own name which you forgot a long time ago.

 

* * *

 

Your scars are turning black.  You think you see smoke rising from them.

 

* * *

 

At some point, you cut off a toe.  It doesn’t come back.

 

* * *

 

You come to know, through some combination of the horrorterrors’ whispers and your own reasoning, over a very long time, that this is how horrorterrors are made, where they come from, that you will become one.  Eventually.  Inevitably.

You...

You think you’re okay with that.

 

* * *

 

You forget the names of your friends.  You don’t know when it happened, or how.  It probably didn’t even _happen_ , they just, sort of, faded from your memory.

Like footprints in the sand.

 

* * *

 

Nothing is permanent.  Nothing is sound.  Not even gods, and especially not you.

You’ve known this for a long time, but millennia of wandering the furthest ring has made you forget it, somehow. 

If you listened close enough, you might be able to hear the sound of other players wandering the ring and enjoying the afterlife.  But all you hear are the whispers of the horrorterrors.

At some point, you started speaking their tongue.

 

* * *

 

Your name is...

Wait.  Shit, nevermind.

And...

And you don’t know what you are anymore.

Or what you used to be, for that matter.  You were a god, but before that.

You were just a person, you guess.  A person of... some species or another.

But now?

You’re little more than a little black smoking ball.  Your god teir powers are the only way you can move around.  Not that you would want to.

You still listen to the horrorterrors, and the only language you can speak is theirs.

You don’t have your clothes, or most of your body.

You actually don’t remember what your body looks like.

Even in this place, your surroundings remain a constant.  You can’t find them no matter how far you run.

You don’t even remember who you’re looking for.

 

* * *

 

You... guess you’re one of them now.


End file.
